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by TsunadesApprentice



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Friendship/Love, Post-Episode: s13e23 Let the Good Times Roll, Romantic Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-25
Updated: 2018-07-25
Packaged: 2019-06-16 04:54:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15429453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TsunadesApprentice/pseuds/TsunadesApprentice
Summary: SEASON 13 ENDING SPOILERSSeveral months after 13x23 TFW is reunited and Dean is left reeling by what has happened. Destiel hurt/comfort. Ace destiel if you like.





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**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for the end of S13 ahead.
> 
> This is just some fluffy/ace destiel work. Also, a song called 'Control' by Golden Vessel came on as I was writing this - I've never heard it before, but it really fit what I was trying to do with this fic.
> 
> Disclaimer: obviously, I own nothing .

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The bunker is the same. The library is the same. Jack is a little bit taller, Sam's hair a little longer, but they're the same. Cas is the same.

Dean's the same.

Except - except that he's not.

Finally, Michael is gone. Dean finally has control of his body back. But… it doesn't feel like it's really his. Not anymore. It feels like an ill-fitting sweater: all the right parts but somehow not fitting right, feeling clumsy and awkward when he moved while forming a thick layer between him and the world around him.

Shock. That's what it was, he knew. But not like he'd ever experienced before.

Dean stands in silence, leaning back against the edge of one of the hardwood tables of the library, eyes fixed on the amber liquid in his hand, the glass of the tumbler hard against his tense fingers. It was something solid, something real - more so than the large room around him.

The library is almost silent around him but for the soft sound of Sam's breathing where his brother has fallen asleep in his seat, the sound almost drowned out by the buzzing in Dean's head.

Opposite him, Cas is like a distorted mirror image: shorter, darker, broader, but his position the same as Dean's as they face each other in silence. Cas doesn't fidget, doesn't move, just maintains his silent vigil.

In fact, Cas isn't even breathing. One of the… advantages of being an-

Dean cuts off that thought before it can go anywhere and for a second Dean is back in that motel room, all those years ago, watching Jimmy Novak eating like a man starved. He'd listened as the energetic man had spoken of how it had felt to be a vessel - 'like being strapped to a comet' he'd said. The man had clearly been irked at the inconvenience of what had happened to him, and eager to get back to his life, but he had been upbeat. Lively.

Jimmy had been happy.

And then, he'd been forced into becoming a vessel once more.

Dean had watched impassionately. Jimmy had made his choice: that's how Dean had seen it. But now? Now… Had it really been any different to what Michael had done to him? When he'd stolen control of Dean's body away from him? It had been words that had stolen Jimmy's control away from him. Words veiled as a choice that was really no such thing.

How was Castiel any different to Michael?

No.

No- he _wouldn't_ think like that. Castiel - Cas - was different. He always had been.

Jimmy _hadn't_ resented his time as a vessel - only how long it had taken him away from his family. The man hadn't _enjoyed_ being a vessel, not by a long stretch, and he'd clearly felt somewhat bitter… But not because of what Castiel had done to him. It had been far more complex than that.

No. Cas _wasn't_ like Michael. He wasn't like Zacharia or Uriel, or any of those dicks-with-wings. Cas _cared_. He made mistakes, he wasn't infallible - sometimes he was a downright dick - but he _cared_.

And he was their friend.

He'd been their friend as he'd sacrificed himself for them. He'd been their friend as he'd lied to them. As he'd run from Dean in purgatory. As he'd fallen for Metatron's lies. As he'd let Lucifer in.

No matter how misguided Cas' reasons had been, he'd always been their friend, and after years of denial Dean had finally accepted that friendship wasn't all that was between him and the awkward angel.

In the years since that understanding, Dean has also accepted the nigh-on unbelievable fact that his feelings weren't unreciprocated.

But now, somehow that thought hurts. It scrapes over the self loathing he's feeling and the strange numbness that had kept him standing here in silence for hours already, unable to move, unable to even find the desire to do so.

With an effort, Dean raises the glass to his lips and drains it. Trying to savour the burn of the whisky - trying to just _feel_ it.

Cas watches him, those bright blue eyes perceptive, face drawn in a slight frown but unmoving. For a moment, Dean meets those piercing eyes - and not just piercing in the way of cheesy romance novels, but piercing in that they saw right through to his soul. He holds that gaze, reminding himself that Cas isn't just another angel, he's - well, he's Cas.

He's Dean's-

He's Cas.

The connection breaks as Cas looks down at the empty glass, scanning over the strained, white knuckles of Dean's hand as he holds it. He takes a slow, measured step forward, his hand raising to take the tumbler from Dean in a slow, steady movement, and then he's moving away again.

Dean would watch him, would follow him with his eyes, or say something, or react. He would. But his body doesn't feel like his own any more and instead all he can do is stare unblinkingly at the space Cas had occupied against the opposite table, and drop his hand to clench against the wood supporting him, now that his anchoring glass is gone.

Dean doesn't know how long Cas is gone, but all of a sudden he's back and Dean is pulled out of his numb reverie by those impossibly blue eyes gazing up at him with concern.

Cas offers him the now filled tumbler and gingerly, almost reluctantly, Dean's hand reaches for it, fingers brushing clumsily over the glass and Cas's warm fingers before finding purchase.

Cas doesn't withdraw his hand after Dean takes hold of the glass and his fingers hover over Dean's for a moment, the contact so fleeting that Dean shouldn't be able to feel it in his numbed state, but he does.

And as Cas settles his fingers fully on his and slides them up to circle Dean's wrist in a gentle hold, it becomes the centre of Dean's focus.

Dean can feel with startling clarity the softness of Cas' palm - because for all that Castiel is a warrior of heaven, Jimmy Novak was an accountant. The feeling is like a flash of light in a dark night and it's the first real thing he's felt since Michael took over all those months ago. And with it comes a rush of fatigue, enough for him to drop his head forward, breaking eye contact.

In front of him, still so close after all these years and despite Dean's complaints about personal space in the early years, Cas lets out a soft sigh and a barely whispered "Dean…" before he lets his head drop forward, too, their foreheads touching.

Dean watches numbly as the glass begins to slip from his hand, as Cas' free hand catches it before it can fall. He doesn't care. Maybe Cas is doing something to him or maybe it's just that Cas is touching him, but all of a sudden his head clears. He's suddenly aware of the room around him, the books left in haphazard stacks on the floor, the piles of notes on Sam's favourite table, the dark shadows under his brother's eyes.

He notices all of it with the attention to detail that a lifetime of hunting has ground into him, but he feels none of it. All he feels is Cas: the pressure of his fingers, the heat of his forehead, the slight shift of his body as he places the glass on the table, the brush of their noses as Dean lifts his head only enough to look into those blue eyes.

Cas' breath hitches just slightly, but he doesn't say anything.

"-as" Dean breathes, his voice catches and breaks on the harsh first sound, losing it in the fading disconnect between his thoughts and his body. He wonders idly if his mouth would regain the ability to function properly if Cas kissed him? But maybe it's enough to just breathe in Cas' exhaled breaths - maybe that's all he can manage right now. It's a luxury he'd thought he might never experience again.

Leaning further into Cas, Dean lets the shorter man support his weight, their noses pressing harder together, lips touching on each inhale.

Neither of them speaks. What is there to say? Cas knows his thoughts anyway - always has - and, for all he can't read minds, Dean knows Cas's thoughts, too. In the decade they've known each other, the years they've been so in love that there have been no words or actions to do the feeling justice, they've come to an understanding. They don't need to speak, not right now.

So Dean just leans into Cas, savouring the contact, the closeness. And when minutes, hours, days later (who knows) Dean feels exhaustion and gravity overcome him, he's not surprised - or even fully aware - when those two strong arms catch him.

All he knows is that he's home.


End file.
